


What Happens In Paris

by hazelandglasz



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: kbl-reversebang, First Meetings, Fluff, Food, Food Porn, M/M, Paris (City), Pastries, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelandglasz/pseuds/hazelandglasz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt got the internship of his dreams, in the city of his dreams. But he never dreamed that Paris would have more in store for him ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens In Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the kbl reversebang moderators for setting this up once again   
> Thank you to my artist for such an inspiring work of art ^^

* * *

 

 

Even though he’s been in Paris for the last month, Kurt still has to wrap his mind around the fact that this is his life.

He is in Paris, he is interning for Vogue France, this is not a very well elaborated dream that he built in his head to escape the dull life that is his lot back in Ohio.

The thought is almost enough to bring a smile to his face in the morning.

Sure, Kurt misses his dad, and his friends, and he often feels like he’s not just in another country but on a whole different planet. Of course he does.

But he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Before coming to Paris, he thought that everybody in France was elegant and rude, and smoking, and eating bread and cheese with wine 365 days a year.

Give or take, naturally.

That all the movies and TV shows were sophisticated, convoluted plots with good looking people that looked bored but determined to conquer the world and/or the heart of their lover.

But now--now he has a deeper understanding of what it means to be French, to be Parisian, and it makes him love the culture all the more.

Because now he knows that Parisian people can be elegant, but they can also look like hobos.

They can look like they put on the first things that they reached upon waking up--but Kurt thinks that the vast majority manages to pull an air of elegance nonetheless, and he has to find out if it’s something in the water or something he can grow to cultivate for himself.

They can be rude, but Kurt has seen first-hand how generous and helpful they can be when they decide to apply themselves to.

Like his elderly neighbor who has generously offered to take him around the block to show him where to find what when he arrived, lonely and a bit teary eyed.

Her English was pretty bad, but so was Kurt’s French, and they worked together to understand one another.

Mrs. Cornel didn’t have to do that; she could have taken care of herself, and leave Kurt to fend for himself. But no, she took him under her wing, correcting his French and giving Kurt his new motto.

“Don’t worry about pronunciation, dear. If people want to understand you, they will.”

That little sentence, said in comfort for Kurt who was getting close to never attempt to speak French ever again, has followed Kurt for the past month.

It’s his personal boost of confidence to trust himself and what little French he knows, to improve and to listen when someone is trying to correct him.

More than just learning a language, Kurt feels like these are Life lessons he’ll never forget.

That, and the internship, of course.

God, the professional wisdom he’s getting--and not just on a personal level, even if working with the French team and European designers has been an experience in self-growth--is simply priceless, and definitely worth all of the sacrifices.

He already knows that he will come home from that internship a different person, a more professional one, a true asset to whoever will be lucky enough to snatch him--he hopes that it will be Isabelle, but that’s far away.

So yeah, sometimes Kurt gets lonely, and sometimes he feels more estranged than usual, sure.

But he knows that it will be more than worth it when he gets back to New York.

Besides, Paris is the perfect place to be to find the only efficient cure to loneliness in Kurt’s opinion.

Speaking of which, he should get a move on if he wants to get to the best bakery ever in time before closing.

But as he sees his bus passing him by at full speed, Kurt decides to walk--might as well get rid of his guilt beforehand, he thinks to himself with a private smile.

He entirely blames his desire to make it to Rue du Bac before 7p.m. for his collision with the young tourist.

So, in a way, it’s Philippe Conticini’s fault if Kurt meets Blaine in such a sudden fashion.

 

\---

 

Two months.

Blaine has two months of freedom to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants before starting NYADA in the Fall.

And it’s not that Blaine regrets making the decision of pursuing his dream and his career, far from it, but he knows, deep down, that once he’ll get started he won’t be as free as he is right now, in this limbo between the end of High School and the beginning of College.

So he has decided to make the best of it, banking some of his birthday presents (past and future) to book a trip around Europe.

He spent a week around Ireland, moved on to England--Oxford, Cambridge, London--before going to the continent.

His stay in Belgium was … uneventful, to say the least--if earning him a couple of pounds around his belly, but whatever--and then he moved on to France.

He still has Germany and Italy on his program, but France is the country where he wants to stay for the longest.

Blaine planned it pretty well, if you ask him: instead of starting with Paris, he keeps the capital for his last week, using the rest of the French portion of his program to look around.

Around the Arena in Nîmes.

Around the Mediterranean culture Museum and the Calanques in Marseille.

Around the beaches of Normandy to pay his respect to the D-Day locations (and to the delicious caramels from Camembert.

Which, surprisingly enough, do not contain any of the namesake cheese.

It’s the kind of surprises Blaine welcomes in his life wholeheartedly).

Around the Puys in Auvergne to look at the beautiful landscapes and take some fresh air before going to Paris, and Blaine has a lot of fun trying to take pictures that will balance the ones he took in Kerry--that is, when he prints them for his scrapbook of his adventures once he’s back home.

But now he’s in Paris, and he intends to make the best of it.

Blaine has planned it carefully, because he doesn’t know when another opportunity to come to Paris will arise.

He has 6 days in the French capital, so of course he’s going to visit as many museums as possible--the Louvre, Orsay, maybe the Quai Branly--but more than anything else, Blaine wants to try the food.

The delicious food that has made the country famous all around the world.

Not necessarily snails or offals, no, but Blaine wants, needs, craves French pastries.

Real croissants, real puffs--he has heard that there are some filled with cream, some remain empty, and he wants it all--and a “proper” lemon pie.

Or, to use what little of French he prepared for the trip, a “tarte au citron meringuée”.

He understands tart, he thinks he understands the meringue, and he’s blissfully oblivious to the rest.

And if the foodist blogs are to be believed, there is one place for the absolute best lemon pie in Paris, and it’s the “Patisserie des Rêves”.

Dream Bakery--or so Blaine translates it with his limited knowledge--does have a nice ring to it, and Blaine doesn’t even want to go to his hotel first to get there.

Not to look too lost or confused in the maelstrom that is the Parisian transportation system, Blaine had prepared his journey to the bakery, and from the bakery to the hotel--he likes to be prepared, so sue him.

But nothing could have prepared him for his collision with the young expat on the corner of the Rue du Bac.

In a way, Blaine totally blames (or thanks, depending on the day) Paris and its imposing architecture for meeting Kurt so cavalierly.

 

\---

 

Kurt’s first instinct upon impact is to check the ground for dog’s or pidgeon’s excrements.

The second is to let himself fall--never again will he try to stop it and twist his ankle.

A bruise is better handled than a twisted ankle, he can swear it now that he has gone through it.

That doesn’t make the fall any softer, naturally, but it makes him feel better about it, in a strange, twisted way.

As he goes to stand up, Kurt registers a couple of things about his “attacker”, elements that make him calm himself down instead of blowing up at them.

First, with a backpack this size, it can only be a tourist.

Second, the tourist is very cute.

Call him shallow, but it does contribute to Kurt’s willingness to keep from insulting the man and his ancestors.

“Pardon, sorry,” the tourist says, already scrambling to his feet to help Kurt up. “Day-zoo-lay,” he adds, and if his first French word was nearly perfect, the second makes Kurt giggle.

“It’s alright,”  he replies, brushing his legs and ass off the sidewalk’s dust. “Happens all the time.”

The Tourist smiles at him. “A fellow American, then,” he says, before giving Kurt a quick once-over. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Kurt knows a compliment when he hears one, and he preens a little at it.

And then his eyes find the clock near the firelights. “Shit, I have--I have to run, I have some shopping to do and the bakery--”

“Conticini?”

That gives him pause. “The very one--it’s closing in 10 minutes.”

“I know! Let’s go!”

Kurt blinks as the Tourist runs by him, already pulling him along like it’s completely normal for two men to run down the narrow sidewalk hand in hand.

Then again, weirder things happen in Paris.

They enter the bakery in a rush under the knowing look of the two salespersons dressed in their impeccable black uniform.

“Bonsoir,” the younger looking one welcomes them, “puis-je vous aider?”

The Tourist looks a bit confused, frowning in an adorable manner--and really, Kurt needs to get out more if he’s already entertaining ideas about how adorable a man he has just met can be--and Kurt takes over.

“She just asked us if she can help,” he whispers, and the sales woman's eyes widen slightly.

“My apologies,” she says, her English impeccable if a little accented. “What could I interest you in today?”

A look of relief passes in the Tourist’s eyes, and Kurt smiles at her. “I would like one [Saint-Honoré](http://www.sofoodsogood.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/conticini.png), please,” he asks, eyes sweeping around the different glass displays.

“You’re in luck,” the saleswoman says with a smile, “we have one individual one left.”

The Tourist leans towards the stand to look at the cake, at the ribbon of cream and the lush of the caramel and nods, humming in agreement.

“That looks fantastic,” he says softly, his breath brushing Kurt’s cheek, and really now, he definitely needs to get out and find himself a Parisian beau to relieve some of his … tension.

“What about you sir?”

The Tourist turns a dazzling smile upon her, and even through the stubble that verges on a full-on beard and the disastrous traveling outfit, Kurt can sympathize with the poor girl.

That smile is a weapon of mass destruction.

“I have traveled long and far to have a taste of Chef Conticini’s famous lemon pie,” he says, and Kurt turns to the display of little mignardises to keep his smile from being too obvious.

Such a smooth talker, he thinks, but he can tell that it’s just a part of who the Tourist really is.

A genuine smooth talker, if that was ever possible.

But even though she looks just a teensy bit flustered, the saleswoman has an apologetic look on her face.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” she says, and Kurt wants to wipe the way the man’s smile crumbles to pieces, “but we are all out of Lemon pie. Can I interest you in our[ Rhubarb pie](https://36.media.tumblr.com/273c54455afe8d8e910d7b3b9d559799/tumblr_noehshhHT81r70b7mo3_540.jpg)?”

She gestures to a stand nearby, and truth be told, the pie looks amazing, and he’s not concerned, because he’s already paying for his precious Saint-Honoré, but if he were the Tourist, Kurt knows that he would be disappointed.

Even if it it’s delicious, it is no substitute for Conticini’s delicate lemon pie, alas.

Apparently, the other man agrees with Kurt’s opinion, because he slowly shakes his head.

“What else do you have in individual serving?” he asks politely, and the woman guides him to another table with the glass stands.

Kurt takes his bag, and he keeps his eyes on the man, observes the way he takes the woman’s opinion into consideration, and for all intents and purposes, Kurt should leave.

He knows that.

He doesn’t have any duty to this man, but there is something in his demeanor, something vulnerable and sweet that makes Kurt want to hang around and make sure that he, at least, goes safely to his hotel.

And if a stray thought crosses his mind, whispering dirty little things about what Kurt could do in said hotel with the Tourist, or to the Tourist, well, it’s only his problem to take care of--unless mind reading is actually a thing.

 

\---

 

The disappointment born from the absence of lemon pie is dulled by the feeling of the Expat on his back.

Blaine can feel it lingering, almost as tangible as the touch of fingers, and Blaine savors it.

After all, it has been a long while since he had even the thrill of flirting with someone, and the young man who appears to favor custard and little cream puffs fits Blaine’s list of desired traits to a T.

But before satisfying a very private kind of hunger--if only by looking at the other man, because Blaine would never assume someone’s sexuality upon his own desires--, Blaine needs to satisfy his sweet tooth.

He has priorities, after all.

Rhubarb is not a taste Blaine particularly enjoys, not even in the very capable hands of a magician like Chef Conticini; he supposes he could go for the [raspberry pie](http://lapatisseriedesreves.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/Tarte-framboise-p%C3%A2tisserie-des-r%C3%AAves-philippe-conticini.jpg) or for the [fruitier](http://lapatisseriedesreves.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/PDR_Produits_Patisseriedenotreenfance_06_31.gif), it looks good, sure.

Blaine frowns--then again, he really wanted to have the refreshment of the taste of lemon hitting his palate and cleansing it all.

“And what about the newest piece of our Summer collection?” the saleswoman offers, gesturing to the table closest to the till. Blaine approaches and his eyes widen.

In his peripheral vision, Blaine can see the Expat approaching too, probably curious to see what is going on.

“It’s our Summer [Bavarois](http://www.canalgourmandises.fr/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/DSC_5367-240x300.jpg),” the young woman explains, presenting the delicate cake. “The base is made of a lime infused-biscuit, on top of which you can find a lemon and verbena crémeux, a lemon jam and a delicate fromage blanc-based mousse.”

Blaine can feel his mouth filling with saliva at the description, and it does look incredibly light and delicious. “You sure know how to sell it,” he says with a light chuckle. “Alright, I’ll give it a try.”

The young woman smiles at him. “Will that be all?”

Blaine is about to say yes, because he doesn’t need anything else, he really doesn’t, but his eyes find the Expat still hovering near the door, bag in hand and looking like he doesn’t know whether to leave or stay.

They look at each other for a split second, and then Blaine makes a decision that changes the course of his journey.

“I’ll also take a bag of fruit jellies,” he ends up saying, and the way the Expat’s eyes widen, along with the way he looks away with a smile lets him know that he made the right choice.

“I’ll let you pay with my colleague while we prepare your box,” the saleswoman tells him, tapping on her little machine with a smile.

Blaine goes to pay, and he can’t help the happy, squeaky noise that comes out of him when a pink box seemingly magically appears on the cashier’s left.

“Oh thank you,” he tells the person as he takes the bag with his precious cake and the bag of small balls of jellied fruits.

“Thank you for your visit,” she replies with a professional smile. “Enjoy!”

Blaine carefully carries the bag outside and he can’t deny that he’s relieved to see that the Expat is still here.

“Oh,” he says, feigning surprise but not the glee of seeing him here, “you stayed.”

The man looks down, a crooked smile on his lips as he scratches the side of his nose--the slope of it makes Blaine think of the mountains in Auvergne he just left. “It didn’t feel right to leave a compatriot to fend for himself,” he says before taking a deep breath.

Blaine is not totally immune to the way it stretches the man’s shirt over what looks like a well defined chest.

“Do you know somewhere we could enjoy our pastries while you tell me everything there is to know to fend for oneself in the City of Light?” he asks, and the Expat’s face momentarily--no more than a second--takes a feline quality.

“Follow me, if you dare.”

Something tells Blaine that he would follow the Expat to the end of the World.

 

\---

 

He’s clearly been bewitched.

Or there was something in the climatization system at the bakery that made him lose all sense of proprieties.

Sure, Kurt, blame the confectioner’s sugar and the smell of ganache.

The thing is, there is no logical explanation nor excuses for the fact that Kurt just dared a stranger to follow him to his personal Parisian spot.

It’s not too far, and at this time of the day, he’s fairly certain that they won’t bother anybody nor be bothered.

The Tourist introduces himself after two minutes of walking together--”I don’t know what you’re calling me in your head, but I’m pretty sure the Expat is not your name”--and Kurt finds that he starts enjoying Blaine’s presence more and more as they talk.

At first, sure, he was seduced by the compact body and the smooth talker persona that peaked through the wandering tourist looks.

But the more they discuss--and no subject is left on the sideline: what they do back home, where is home, why Paris, especially when they realize that they are from the same Buckeye state--the more Kurt catches himself wishing that they could have met earlier.

He definitely could have used a friend like Blaine in his life back in High school, back when he didn’t feel like he was strong enough to endure so much.

Someone out and proud, someone smart and funny, someone dorky and gentle.

And so handsome--that definitely doesn’t hurt.

“Where are you taking me?” Blaine asks as they cross yet another street and turn on Rue de Sèvres and Kurt only smiles, marching on.

His eyes are wide as he takes this not-so-known, and yet so cliché face of Paris: Saint-Germain des Prés gathers, in Kurt’s mind, the essence of what American movies make of Paris. Charming cafés with lovely people drinking coffees or wine while smoking on the establishment’s terraces, shops showing expensive clothes and furniture, the tall buildings--and yet, there is more than what meets the eye.

“Wow.”

Kurt had a feeling that Blaine would appreciate that particular building.

“That’s Saint Vladimir the Great’s [Cathedral](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/09/P1090214_Paris_VI_cath%C3%A9drale_St-Vladimir-le-Grand_rwk.JPG/280px-P1090214_Paris_VI_cath%C3%A9drale_St-Vladimir-le-Grand_rwk.JPG),” he says, nodding in the direction of the massive church ringing its bells, and he holds his hand up, silently offering to take Blaine’s bag while he takes a potential picture.

But Blaine only looks at the hand before him and smiles a Mona Lisa smile before taking it in his own hand, a pretty flush spreading on the high of his cheeks.

Kurt feels like one could cook an egg on his face with the strength of his blush, but he doesn’t have the heart--nor the will--to take his hand away.

Besides, it feels … good, to hold Blaine’s hand.

No, that’s not the right word.

It feels right to hold Blaine’s hand.

“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat, “we’re almost there.”

“What is ‘there’?” Blaine asks, tilting his head to the side.

“My favorite place in Paris,” Kurt replies, his lips stretching into a grin at the sight of the palm trees.

Blaine pulls him slightly backwards when he stops walking and Kurt smiles at him. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Wha--,” Blaine starts, and Kurt reaches for the pink bag in his hand, lest he drops it in his amazement. “What is this place?”

“The electricity company has opened a [Foundation ](http://lili-larchi.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/Fondation-EDF.jpg)to present contemporary exhibit,” Kurt explains, picking a sit on the edge of one of the massive pots surrounding the trees. “And they have created this little oasis in the middle of Paris.”

Blaine’s eyes remain as wide as saucers as he takes it all in--the old factory transformed into a gallery, the contrast between the palm trees and the architecture behind it, the handful of passersby that can’t be anything else but living in the area, walking their dogs and bringing fresh baguettes back home--and Kurt takes advantage of that moment of distraction to look at him properly.

He even starts wondering what Blaine looks like usually, because there is no way that someone that went to a posh private school and is scheduled to go to NYADA in the fall can pull that kind of ruggish look in everyday life.

“Come on,” Kurt finally says when he feels like he has captured enough mental pictures of Blaine’s profile (and Blaine’s caramel eyes, glowing in the soft sunlight), “let’s eat our cakes before the heat affects them.”

“Right, right,” Blaine says with a small, almost shy smile. “I guess I lost myself in the beauty of it.”

“I get it, don’t worry.”

“It is your favorite place in Paris after all.”

“It really is,” Kurt says, leaving the opened box to look around him and enjoy the quiet granted by the trees.

Blaine opens his own box and smiles at the cake. “It looks almost too good to be eaten.”

“Keyword being almost,” Kurt adds with a chuckle, tearing one of the puffs and dipping it in the cream ribbon before popping it in his mouth. “Oh my God,” he whispers, voice muffled by the delicious caramel and cream in his mouth. “This is the best thing that has happened to me all day.”

Blaine looks at him from underneath his eyelashes before pulling a spoon from the bag, digging into his own delight.

The [spoonful ](http://mon-patissier.restaurantemploi.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/11/2015/04/bavarois-f%C3%AAte-des-m%C3%A8res-Philippe-Conticini-P%C3%A2tisserie-des-R%C3%AAves.jpg)does look delicious, and Kurt knows what he’ll take the next time he manages to spare enough money for one of Conticini’s creations. In one swift move, Blaine has managed to take some of the biscuit, some of the sponge cake and some of the pale yellow, lemon cream.

Kurt slows down his chewing to look at the way Blaine delicately takes it into his mouth, lips closing around the plastic and his eyes flutter shut as a moan comes from his closed mouth.

This is all far too erotic for a first encounter.

“You want me to leave you two alone?” Kurt says, covering his embarrassment (and, truth be told, part of his sudden arousal) with a joke.

Blaine opens his eyes again, and smiles around the spoon before taking it out with a popping sound. “Nah, I’m good--but it’s definitely in the confines of a religious experience.”

Kurt nods quietly, tearing another caramelized puff to chew on.

“Do you--do you want to try it?”

Cheek bulging because of the pastry, Kurt focuses on Blaine, who is pointing the spoon at the opened box between them.

“Trade?” Kurt offers, because he does want to try the summery cake, but he has not been raised by wolves, thank you very much.

“Sure.”

Finding the proper way to trade effectively takes them a minute of giggling and moving around, until Blaine digs into the box and holds the spoon in front of Kurt. “Go ahead.”

Kurt blinks a couple of times, trying not to get cross-eyed over the cake in front of him, before opening his mouth to let Blaine feed him the cake.

There is definitely a sensual vibe in the motion of letting someone put something in his mouth (and a treacherous voice that sounds like his roommate whispers that the consistency and color of the cake he’s being fed only add to it), and while Kurt’s arousal was under control, it’s threatening to become a … growing problem.

“It’s delicious,” he says softly, “light and refreshing too, without being too bitter.”

“I know, right?” Blaine replies with an enthusiastic nod. “Come on, my turn.”

Kurt takes the last puff, swirling it into the cream to get as much as he can, and holds it in front of Blaine, unsure if he can put everything in Blaine’s mouth--and seriously, Santana’s voice in his brain needs to shut up--or just let him bite into it.

Blaine once again makes the decision for him and closed his teeth around half of the puff, gently taking the remaining half from Kurt as he chews and hums happily.

Unlike Kurt, though, he waits to swallow before giving his impression. “Oh wow,” he lets out in a breath, taking a small nibbling bite, “this is a masterpiece.”

Kurt looks away from the smudge of cream sticking to Blaine’s scruff and returns his attention to what is left of his own cake.

Cream and flaky pastry, here he comes.

 

\---

 

The daylight slowly fades away and the streetlamps progressively get turned on around them, giving a more private atmosphere to their little snack.

“Well, it’s getting late,” Blaine says as he wipes at his face with a folded handkerchief. “I should--I should get to my hotel.”

“Do you know how to get there?” Kurt asks, and Blaine wants to hug him, for being so nice and for making him feel so at ease in this foreign city.

“I …,” he starts, before coming to the realization that he actually doesn’t know. “I knew how to go there from the bakery, but I think I’m a little bit lost.”

“Do you have the address?”

“I know that it’s around Bastille,” Blaine says, already reaching for the small clutch he used to put all of his papers inside of his bag.

“Alright,” Kurt says, standing up. “There is a bus that will take you there.”

“I looked it up,” Blaine replies, remembering his research. “The 69, right?”

One of Kurt’s eyebrows lifts ever so slightly, but he nods. “You come prepared,” he comments, and Blaine preens shamelessly, making Kurt laugh in the darkening alley.

“This was nice,” Blaine says as they walk in the nearly empty street, save for the rare cars and bikes passing them by. “I’m glad I decided to go to this particular place as soon as I arrived in Paris.”

Kurt smiles shyly at him, turning his head to look at him. “I’m … I’m glad too.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, and Blaine--to his great astonishment--doesn’t want this enchanted episode to end.

“Would you--”

“May I--”

They both laugh, embarrassed at speaking at the same time, and Blaine gestures for Kurt to go on.

“Would you like to hang out? Again?” Kurt asks, his voice catching at the end as it tilts into a question. “I mean, if you want my help to see Paris or, you know, just see each other again…”

“I’d love to,” Blaine replies sincerely, “but it’s only the week.”

Kurt worries his lower lip while he apparently thinks things through, and Blaine has to control himself, lest he follows his instinct.

Which is to lean forward and kiss the spot that is slightly darker now.

“Here, I’ll give you my number,” he says, having reached a decision as he takes a card from his pocket and scribbles on it. “If you need help or,” he looks up, “or want a repeat, I’ll try to be available.”

Blaine takes the card and carefully puts it in his pocket. “I’ll definitely take you up on that,” he replies, smiling at Kurt as the bus rolls closer to the stop.

“Good night Blaine,” Kurt says, helping him get in the bus without knocking anybody with his bag. “And … bienvenue à Paris.”

“Thanks,” Blaine replies before the bus closes its doors. “Good night!” he shouts with a wave of his hand, hoping that Kurt heard it, before finding a seat for himself and his bag.

What a day.

What. A. Day!

Blaine looks through the window, and beams at Kurt when he finds him still standing at the stop.

“Good night,” he repeats, waving his hand, and the memory of Kurt’s smile before walking in another direction lulls him to sleep later, when he gets to his [hotel](http://q-ec.bstatic.com/images/hotel/840x460/348/34867229.jpg).

 

\---

 

The following days are amongst the busiest in Kurt’s life since he has arrived in Paris: between the preparation for the September issue, the new designers that he has to interview, the heat that takes over the city and pushing all the climatization system to its limits, and Blaine, Kurt doesn’t have a minute to wonder what is going to happen next, because it’s already happening before he has the time to even conceive it.

Ah, Blaine.

True to his words, he keeps in touch with Kurt, and makes sure that he’s not taking up too much of his time, but even when Kurt is at his desk, it’s like Blaine is right here with him. He might as well be, for his presence on Kurt’s mind.

It’s not the first time that Kurt has a crush on someone, but it has never been so sudden, so all-encompassing and so well-deserved.

They didn’t meet every day, but Kurt managed to save his Friday afternoon and evening just for Blaine, since he’s supposed to leave for Düsseldorf and the “Größte Kirmes am Rhein”, which is an amusement [fair](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Largest_Fair_on_the_Rhine) if Kurt got it right.

The knowledge that there is a fair, with park rides and fireworks and typical fair food, just across the border, and that Blaine has timed his trip to be able to see it and be a part of it, only increases Kurt’s attraction for him.

Kurt shakes his head as he walks out of the subway and heads towards the inverted [glass ](https://onepark.a.cdnify.io/media/W1siZiIsIjIwMTUvMDIvMjUvMTQvMjgvNDIvMjEvQ2Fycm91c2VsZHVMb3V2cmUuanBnIl0sWyJwIiwidGh1bWIiLCIxNDAweDcwMCMiXV0?sha=24b14e29d69bf1ad)[pyramid](http://www.salonbellesmontres.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/carrousel.jpg), where he’s supposed to meet Blaine.

Now, he has to focus if he wants to leave his friend on a good note, on a good memory of him, and preferably on a not ridiculous one.

After all, who knows if they’ll find each other again once they’re both back in New York? Kurt needs to make sure that Blaine will at least want to look for him.

But since they’re going to visit the Louvre by night, the chances for ridicule are considerable less than in another environment.

It’s not like Kurt has looked over different paintings to be able to woo Blaine away with his knowledge of different art history facts.

Absolutely not, why would he do that after all ...?

“Kurt!”

Blaine’s voice bounces on the marble tiles of the Carrousel, and Kurt is smiling before he even sees him in the crowd.

Blaine is exiting one of the shops, carrying two cups of coffee. “I was here early,” he explains, so I got you a coffee since I know you didn’t have the time for a well deserved break.”

Kurt takes the proffered cup and takes a delicate sniff. The smell of chocolate and coffee is undeniable, and he looks at Blaine with surprise written all over his face. “You know … you know my coffee order?”

“Duh,” Blaine says with an exaggerated pout. “That’s what friends do.”

“Indeed,” Kurt says pensively, taking a sip of his drink--perfect balance, perfect temperature--to hide his blush from Blaine.

How is he ever going to get over his crush on Blaine?

For the first time ever, Kurt wonders if he is going to be able to eat all of his feelings.

 

\---

 

The Louvre had always been on Blaine’s bucket list, but to be able to look at the paintings almost as if he was alone in the museum with Kurt, that’s more than perfect.

That’s a dream coming true, a dream Blaine didn’t even know he could have.

He’s the first surprised by the easy friendship that has blossomed between them, and so quickly too, but Blaine is not about to question it.

Blaine considers it something precious, something that he will carry as a memory of his personal Grand Tour on equal footing with his other souvenirs.

Kurt turns out to be the perfect companion for visiting the Louvre, giving little pieces of information regarding this period or this artistic movement, but even when they walk in silence, it’s not awkward at all.

It’s companionable, easy--again with that word; nothing has ever come easy for Blaine, no matter what his friends may think--and it fills Blaine with comfort.

“Ready to leave tomorrow?” Kurt asks as they enter the [Cour Puget](http://i45.servimg.com/u/f45/15/95/44/71/1_1_1497.jpg), filled with sculptures, but Blaine cannot pay attention to the diverse mythology subjects carved in marble.

With a sigh, he goes to sit on a step, and observes the way Kurt elegantly follows him. “I am … excited, mostly, but also …”

He doesn’t know how to go on--how do you explain to someone you barely know that they make you want to stick around a little bit longer?

How do you explain that you cherish their friendship and that you admire them, their talent, and their strength, and their--

Hold on.

Blaine is having an epiphany, right here and now.

“Also?” Kurt asks, pulling Blaine back into the present.

“But I’m going to miss Paris,” Blaine says, and he feels like a coward for taking that easy road. If there is one thing that he wants to learn from Kurt, it’s definitely to be brave and to be himself, so he clears his throat and smiles to give himself some countenance, avoiding Kurt’s gaze. “I’m going to miss you.”

The six words come to life barely above a whisper, but they seem to echo through the marbled room with the strength of a thunderclap.

Kurt’s sharp intake of breath makes him look up, and the look on Kurt’s face is one of disbelief and … hope?

Or maybe Blaine is just projecting his own emotional turmoil.

“I …,” Kurt starts, pink dusting the apple of his cheeks as he looks away, up to the glass ceiling, “I will miss you too.”

Blaine feels like a weight has been taken from his chest. “Me leaving doesn’t … It doesn’t have to mean that we won’t see each other ever again.”

Kurt bumps their shoulders with a crooked smile. “I’m counting on it, take over New York together!”

Blaine jumps to his feet, adopting a super heroic stance. “Nothing will resist us, the two superheroes … uh,” he stops looking back at Kurt, feeling a giggle coming up as his imagination doesn’t follow.

Kurt snorts and stands up next to him, fists on his hips. “The Bavarois and the Saint-Honoré, new leaders of the Big Apple,” he proposes, and the giggle erupts from Blaine’s lips.

“Doesn’t sound very super-hero ish,” he says, leaning ever so slightly against Kurt.

“True, true,” Kurt replies, patting Blaine’s shoulder before starting the ascent of the stairs, Blaine rushing to follow him, “but then again, has New York ever been able to resist a culinary trend as delicious as those?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Blaine says. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Already?”

“I want to have my last Parisian meal in one of those touristy places,” Blaine replies with a wink. “To take me over the fair food that is awaiting me.”

“Oh Lord.”

“And then it will be Italy.”

“Shut up!”

“And then it will be New York.”

Kurt’s smile widens. “And it will be all of it in one place.”

Blaine looks at him, and smiles, a warm sensation building up in his stomach. “All of it in one place sounds amazing.”

 

\---

 

Over the next two weeks, Kurt builds an impressive collection of postcards--from Düsseldorf and from four Italian cities--that gives him the sensation that he’s traveling with Blaine.

At the very least, it gives him the impression that Blaine didn’t leave, not entirely.

As amazing as the internship and the whole Parisian experiment has been, Kurt has now a very good reason to be impatient to come home.

To return to New York.

As much as he wanted to part with Blaine with some reassurance on some kinds of feelings, their last night in Paris was perfect.

No declaration of love nor passionate kisses under a réverbère, sure, but the assurance that the depth of their connection ran deeper than the fleeting time they shared in the French capital.

The tone of the postcards sent by Blaine only reinforce that impression, that “what if”, “maybe” feeling Kurt had when they parted that night.

Blaine’s notes are full of “wish you were here to see it”, and of promises to show him the pictures he has taken by the hundreds in all of his wandering.

The sheer number of his letters, all sent to Kurt at his Condé Nast office’s address, has fed the rumor mill of the whole building up to the end.

But now he’s on the plane back home, his email-box filled with good wishes and recommendation letters and his suitcase with presents and delicacies that he hopes will not get noticed by customs upon arrival.

Kurt must look more innocent than he feels, because nobody bothers him and he gets to his luggages faster than ever.

He knows that Blaine already went back, he knows that he has found a quaint little apartment (really, it’s a glorified bedroom with a shower and a kitchen space) in Brooklyn near the Botanical gardens.

But Kurt didn’t expect Blaine, clean-shaven and actually looking like a character from an old Hollywood movie, to be waiting for him with a sign and a pastry box.

Kurt starts running, even with his bag and his suitcase, and it’s a good thing that Blaine reacts quickly, putting the box and the sign down to open his arms for him.

People around him smile before returning their gazes to the wave of new arrivals, and Kurt takes a step back, keeping one hand on Blaine’s shoulder.

“No more hobo look?” he asks, smiling, fingers itching to cup Blaine’s cheek.

“Nah, that was my European style,” Blaine replies with a shrug, muscles rolling under Kurt’s touch. “How was your flight?”

“I slept the whole time,” Kurt confesses before lightly nudging the pastry box. “What is this?”

To Kurt’s surprise, Blaine blushes rather spectacularly, from his nose to his neck and below his collar. “I … um, I wanted to welcome you home properly, and I, I know that this,” he continues, crouching down to pick up the box, “is no Conticini, but I have been assured that it’s the [best Saint-Honoré](http://www.millefeuille-nyc.com/collections/pastries/products/saint-honore) in New York, and I remembered how much you liked it and--hm!”

Whatever explanation Blaine was going to give is lost in the kiss that Kurt presses against his lips.

Blame the jetlag, blame the dozens of different scenarios Kurt had built in his head about seeing Blaine again, blame the fact that Blaine somehow managed to outshine every single one of them--the point is that Kurt couldn’t resist kissing Blaine any more second.

Before Kurt can start wondering if he crossed a line, though, Blaine’s free hand comes on his back, pushing them closer as he deepens the kiss.

Someone, in the distance, wolf-whistles and they part, breathless and beaming at each other.

“Now you’re here,” Blaine whispers, cupping Kurt’s face with his hand.

“I’m here,” Kurt replies, leaning to rest his forehead against Blaine’s. “Let’s take over this city.”

“Let’s.”

 

**_The End_ **

 


End file.
